


The Magical Snowman and the Blustery King

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, First Time, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For darling starling-girl, who said she wouldn't mind some Mormor.</p><p>Sebastian is magical enough to touch the spot where Jim's heart ought to be.</p><p>1st person POV (Jim's). Rated Mature/R for sexual situations. Adult themes such as non-graphic violence and implied past abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magical Snowman and the Blustery King

He's been attracted to me since day one. The first time I met with him on business, I saw the signs. 

We met when we were younger, back in school. That's part of his appeal to me, in a way I can't explain because it seems like such a disadvantage, but perhaps, in a way, that makes him a bit like family. Almost. Sort of. Passably. It had been exciting to get my hands on him again, anyway.

He's a very good shot. He's got more patience in the pad of his trigger finger than I've had in my entire life. I'm impulsive and changeable, a force like the wind. He's the snow drifting down, and I put him where I want him to go, everyone puts him where they want him to go, but he covers everything in the end, covers everything and kills it with cold and white.

He's started to cover me. He's started to touch me with his wet, clinging snowflakes, but I just have _me_ to blame, the wind of me. There's something sweet and not quite whole about Sebastian that matches the way I'm not quite whole, like maybe if we stare at each other enough, maybe if he reads on my couch and props his feet up and I let him, maybe if I give him free reign of the leftovers in my fridge, maybe if he pulls out his dead mother's china when I stop by his shoddy flat, we'll fill our gaps in somehow.

I'm not even sure if it's working, but I don't want to stop.

***

He makes me wonder, when he's sitting close on the sofa so relaxed, when he's looking at me with longing when he doesn't think I can tell, when a near-death experience makes him quiet and somehow both grateful to be alive and very sad, as if he honestly believes no one cares he's still around. 

I want to kill myself sometimes, and I see it in him too. We're both lonely, really. Terribly lonely. I don't care, though, really, and he does. It's been nice to have him around, though. Sort of like having a brother. Almost like having a friend. Definitely like having a sniper who's not sure what to do with himself, who's quietly clever but awfully lonely, and I don't mind his loneliness because I'm fairly sure most people can't even see it. But I am not most people, so his loneliness sort of belongs to me, for now at least.

Sometimes when he looks at me, I wonder what it's like to be wanted. I wonder if it would be worth trying, even though I'll hurt him and squish his little heart and make those gaps inside of him bitter places where no man will be able to return to. He doesn't look strong enough to take the pain I'm going to give him and then love again afterward. We're probably best off as a could-have-been.

Even still, I must admit he's very handsome to me. It's funny, but when we were kids I thought he looked too open and too sad. Now, I'm fairly sure the world would be better off if there were more people so open and sad, people who would treat me as nicely as he does. When he teasingly calls me "boss" or when he jokes that I'm a king, there's so much truth behind it, in his tone and in his body language, that it tickles me. Sometimes I laugh, and he doesn't even mind.

***

I ask him what he wants me to cook for his birthday. He looks at me like I'm crazy. Unnecessary; I already know I am.

"If you don't tell me, I'll just have to guess, and you'll have to eat it anyway," I say threateningly. I know his allergies and a few of his dislikes.

So he finally lets me know. I'm happier than I should be when he relents.

***

I realize that he often makes me happier than I should be. It all makes me a bit sad, too, because that means it won't last. And I'm probably going to die young, or else he is, and the other will probably live and learn to fill in the gaps with hatred and become something truly terrible, something near-inhuman.

Is that a promising idea or a terrifying one?

Terrifying, I suppose. No man wants to be alone on the inside, not after they've spent some time feeling connected.

***

He refuses my command on the job and messes the whole thing up. I take him home, and then, out of nowhere, I hit him. It's a first, and possibly unprofessional, but I'm a consulting _criminal_ , so possibly not. He doesn't hit back, just sort of relaxes and lets me at him. I didn't mean for it to be so satisfying to me, but later he tells me it lights up my face and makes my voice a low growl. I'm the wind.

I feel ashamed afterward, sitting and looking at him. He's one big bruise, and I did that to him, like he's a pile of snow on the floor, melting away. I'm terrible. I shouldn't have nice things like Sebastian Moran.

I go to get the first aid kit and drop it next to him. He sits up and fumbles to tend to a couple cuts, to test his arm with a wince, but it doesn't seem broken. Good; I'm glad.

Everything is eerily quiet. And then, just when it seems he's finished patching himself up, just when he should be leaving and I should probably get him a cab, he looks up at me from a bruised eye and smiles sadly, remorseful. He crawls over to me with the kit and says with a rough voice, "Your hands, boss." And he cleans my knuckles, he tends to my scrapes, and all I can do is stare as he does.

He was supposed to do anything but this. Is this really my fearsome sniper? Maybe I'd broken him. 

***

As it turns out, I'm the one who broke. Because I tried hitting him again. I'd take things out on him after that, and he kept letting me. As long as he was in good enough shape to do his job, I was allowed to punish him like that.

Until, I realized, he began to look at me with sympathy. One look like that and I jumped back, pulled away like he'd burned me, because he had. 

And, holding his nose, he apologized to me for the fact he did something, not even knowing what it was he'd done. He looked away, just sat very still and waited.

And I left. I went to go get a coffee. 

And I haven't hurt him like that since.

***

The bruises eventually all fade. The ribs mend, and the other bones too. And he's still my Sebastian, but he's somehow even softer. And somehow more daring too. He sits closer on the sofa. Our shoulders brush, our thighs rest against each other, and I never know what to say. I don't know whether to accept it or call him out on it, so I pretend I'm ignoring it but, in effect, I end up giving it a free pass.

I make his favorite again and invite him to drop by. He does. He still does what I tell him to, like a kicked dog, like man's best friend, even if it's a crazy man like me. A crazy best friend for a crazy man. 

I think we're best friends.

***

He still wants me. He still thinks I'm handsome; I can tell. And he's still handsome, handsomer to me now, even. 

I'm in over my head. My sweet little snowman is going to melt if I keep prodding at his coal eyes, if I keep stealing his button nose.

But I want to see what it's like to be wanted that way, what it would really be like to have someone who knows everything about me yet isn't afraid, or at least who knows me and is not having sex with me out of fear, and who I'm not having sex with out of fear either.

What if we did have sex? What if Sebastian, with his trusting little face, with his endless patience and smart mouth, brought me to orgasm? What if he held me lovingly and so close? 

It would almost be normal.

Could I do that to him, though? At one point, I'd never imagined I'd be hitting him, didn't think he'd take it, but I had, and he'd let me. Maybe if he loved me, even though I can't love him back...maybe if I just let him love me, he'd bounce back from that too. 

"I'm not capable of loving anyone," I tell him while we're watching a documentary about wild game in Africa that's already too boring.

He looks at me for a long moment, then says, "Okay."

***

I invite him for dinner again, and both of us know what it means. Afterward, we make our way to the bedroom, shoes off, and he's already taken off his coat and left it on the sofa. We sit on the bed, and it's awkward for both of us, but a nice sort of awkward, an awkward you don't feel a desperate need to try and fix. And he's...warm. I mean, live bodies are, obviously. But I don't mind that he's on my bed, in fact I rather like the fact.

I touch his jaw because it's freshly shaven and he smells like aftershave and it's touching that he cares, that, really, I'd take him into my room to awkwardly sit on the bed with me for a while even if he was all stubbly, and even if he was wearing one of the t-shirts with holes, even if he smelled of gun polish, but he doesn't smell like gun polish, he smells like a date trying to impress, and his shirt is solid and durable, no holes anywhere, and it's _new_. He went out shopping for a new t-shirt, and possibly for the aftershave, and he probably has no idea I'd have offered myself anyway because he broke me with his loyalty, with the way he hasn't run screaming when he really should have.

Finally, he says, "Do you know how far you're willing to go?"

And I make a face and say, "What's the point in talking about it when we could be doing it?" And suddenly he gives me a knowing look that makes me want to squirm because he's caught me, hasn't he? I'd punch him for it, if I still did that.

Boring.

He wisely doesn't mention my lack of normal experience as he says, "Maybe I'll talk and you can respond?"

I shrug, wondering if it's even worth it, if it's such a good idea after all. His mouth against mine says it is, his fingers in my hair, his little moan of satisfaction. He's often very passive, so it's nice.

And he undresses me. And I undress him, and he's watching me with this hunger that isn't passive at all, and it threatens to consume me if I look him in the eye too much. I'm so afraid of what might be, what might not be, but soon he's kissing me again and he's murmuring quiet things. "You're lovely, boss." "I never thought...." "Ohhhh, yes, look at you."

But it isn't like the comments of some superficially intrigued stranger who thinks all I am is pretty. Sebastian knows me. He's let me hit him, he's coveted my cooking, laughed at my jokes. He's huffed in annoyance as I've cleaned his flat. He's come to call in the middle of the night, come and stayed with me and watched mindless television while I complained about my life because I'd been ready to do it, again, to end things, end this stupid existence. He's saved me.

He pushes me backwards, and I let him. And there's something quietly fierce about him, and it's utterly sexy. I'm certainly more interested than I have any right to be. And I can feel his interest, and he can feel mine, and then our hips move and we can feel the heat through our clothes, and I'm making a stupid little keening noise, but he just finds it hot enough to curse at me and rub harder, so I don't feel all that bad about it.

I orgasm that way, but he doesn't mind. In fact, he almost does too, whispering that he's flattered, telling me not to think on it, that I'm lovely and that my coming first is what he's dreamed of, and, damn, I don't know quite what to do with myself, but I curl my arms around him and sigh and feel him rub against my hip and thigh until he follows me, and he sounds so hot when he comes, sounds ferocious. But I've seen scary, and he's not scary; he's brilliant. And even though he's all droopy eyelids and yawns, he gets up and lifts me and takes me to the shower to scrub me off, and I haven't asked.

The cooling, sticky wetness in my trousers had threatened the nice moment, the knowledge that Sebastian was most likely going to fall asleep on me both disheartening and making me feel strange and lonely when I knew that I'd need to go get cleaned up.

But here Sebastian is, and he understands without my saying anything. It's far more than I expect, but he doesn't even seem to know how above and beyond he's going.

If I have a heart, it opens up to him a little then. Tears fill my eyes, and then they actually spill out down my face, and the water washes them away before Sebastian even notices. He's so gentle. I don't mind being naked, all exposed. I'm not as strong as him, nor as tall or as solid, but I feel safe. I don't often feel very safe, actually. But as he cleans me off, I know this will never just be about sex. I know he won't leave me for anyone else. I know this because I am clearly his whole world. I didn't know it so clearly until that shower. I'd had barely any idea.

And after the shower, when I tell him to leave, he hurries instead of taking offense. And before he's out the door, he stops at my side and dares to give me a little kiss. I watch him go, knowing that I'll never be the same.

***

It's weeks before I ask him to dinner again, and he smells nice again. I have everything we need, and I let him know. He gives me a weird look, and I feel like backhanding him. Can't he tell I'm a nervous wreck? I'm not sure what to expect.

"I don't like anal sex," he finally says, very apologetically.

I stare at him. I don't understand.

He sighs. "Is it something you like?"

And I pause and have to think about it. I'd just thought it was what people do. I'd just _done_ it. "Not particularly," I finally say.

He sags in relief and leans in for a quick kiss. 

"So, what _do_ you like?" I ask, feeling a bit ridiculous. This shouldn't be about what he likes!

He grins, tugging me closer. "Basically, anything else," he explains. He rests his lips near my ear and whispers, "We could use our hands and our mouths, obviously, and fingering's fine," he nuzzles my ear, and I'm frozen as I listen to him. "And there's," he laughs, "there's dry humping, but we won't make a habit of it, will we? But, there's a thought! We could stroke each other off in the tub or the shower." I bite my lip. Yes, we could do that. "Oh, and there's this thing...oh, boss," he says in a voice that trembles slightly. "There's this thing called docking. You insert the tip of yourself into another man's foreskin." 

I shiver at the thought. No, I'd not heard of that before. Before, it would have sounded somewhat pedestrian. I clear my throat and say, "T-tonight, though? What'll we do tonight?"

He pulls back and looks at me, and I just barely hold his assessing gaze. I've had experience, mind you. But it's not been normal, both-of-us-are-happy-to-be-there interaction. Why is this so normal?

"Tonight, I'd like to kiss you all over until you beg me to touch you," he says with a smug expression that makes my mouth water.

"Oh," is all I know how to say. I approve of the idea.

And that night, after he's lived up to his promises, after I feel deified and boneless, after he carries me to the shower again, I don't tell him to go home. I don't tell him to stay, but he reads it from me, picks up on it cause he _gets_ me. 

And when I wake up in the morning, he's making breakfast. He's not all that talented of a chef, especially not compared to me, but I think I finally understand the old saying. As he presents it to me, I taste it and mutter that it's the thought that counts. And he's pleased, not offended, or at least not more offended than he is pleased.

As I eat it, I think to myself that no breakfast has ever made me feel so good about myself. Sebastian is trouble. But, then, I've never known how to stay away from trouble. I've never even _tried_ to stay away from trouble.

And this time, trouble likes me back.

No. This time, trouble loves me.


End file.
